


Hiding Places

by alessandralee



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alessandralee/pseuds/alessandralee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Grant is desperate for an escape from the palace, and his attempt to get away for a while leads him to Jemma's workshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiding Places

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "runaway royalty and confused commoner AU."

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, even if that crown doesn’t come with much power. The birth of his nephew makes Prince Grant third in line for the throne, which should make him feel lucky, in a way. It means fewer responsibilities.

Instead, he’s plotting escape.

It’s only for a few hours, but after spending most of the last decade as a knight and commander, leading soldier on various military campaigns, his infrequent trips home make Grant feel confined.

And now, with the christening of his nephew over, Grant’s mother has turned her attention to the next big state affair, his wedding. But before she can start making guest lists and choosing flowers, she has to find him a suitable bride.

She’s only forced him to attend to meetings on the subject so far, but they’ve been endless lectures about titles and wealth and dancing and embroidery.

He’s a prince, he can’t see how sewing skills are an important factor when choosing a bride for a household that will ultimately employ over a dozen maids.

But he doesn’t say this to his mother; he just nods like he understands and hums appreciatively when he thinks she wants him to. It makes the meetings end as quickly as possible, which is still not quickly enough.

But this morning, when his steward informed him that his schedule for the day included fitting for an entire wardrobe just for greeting the families of his prospective brides, Grant reached a breaking point. Apparently, he’ll be meeting candidates for the next two months, during which he’ll be required to remain at the palace.

Grant needs to get away, just for a bit, to see something other than stone walls and tapestries and expertly maintained grounds. He needs to hear something other than the simpering of nobles without anything of consequence to say.

So he puts on his simplest shirt, his well-worn boots, and the dirt-stained jacket he favors while on campaign. And when his steward leaves to fetch hot water for a bath, Grant climbs out the window.

He hasn’t had to escape via the trellis outside his window since he before he was knighted and he’s gained a lot of weight since then, mostly in muscle. But the vines hold and he cuts a path to the abandoned storage room built into the castle walls.

Only it isn’t so abandoned these days.

It seems that, in this descent down the palace walls, Grant has failed to notice that the roof of the storage room has been completely replaced with expensive glass panels. It’s obvious, now that he’s inside. The broken garden tools that used to be piled haphazardly around the room are also missing, replaced with clean floors and tables full of potted plants. The walls are lined with sheers and other gardening equipment, stretching father than Grant ever realized the room went.

There’s also a young man, maybe fourteen or so, judging by his height, hair pulled back and bent over a pot of the renowned Ward Crown Orchids. He hasn’t noticed Grant’s arrival.

Hoping not to spook the youth, Grant raps lightly on the frame of the door her just snuck through.

He fails.

The boy jumps and spins around, dropping his pruning sheers. His eyes are wide as saucers as he takes Grant in, and Grant can only imagine that his expression is much the same.

Because he’s not looking at a boy at all. She might be wearing men’s trousers and be covered in dirt, but she’s unmistakably a woman. Her features are delicate and Grant can see the outline of breasts underneath her dark blue shirt. She’s very pretty, even if she’s not dressed like most of the women Grant knows.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he apologizes, which seems to break her from her shock.

“Not at all, your highness. These are your family’s grounds,” she dips into a low bow, wobbling slightly.

Clearly, she knows who he is, but Grant doubts she’s had much contact with the rest of his family. They would never tolerate such a poorly executed greeting.

“What brings you out here?” she asks, after moments pass without either one of them saying anything.

Grant blushes, realizing he’s been caught both gaping at this stranger, and trying to flee the palace grounds unaccompanied.

If his soldiers saw him like this, he’d never hear the end of it.

“I used to come here,” he finally settles on telling her, “to get away as a child.”

The girl, apparently very perceptive, looks from the window he just climbed out of to the exit on the other side of the room. It opens to the other side of the palace walls, and his freedom. He never actually used it when he was younger, preferring just to hide out in the storage room, but he knows it’s only a short walk to city marketplace.

“And then?” she asks, quirking on eyebrow upwards.

Grant finds himself laughing at how quickly she sees through him.

“I’m sorry your highness, that was rude of me,” she apologizes.

“Grant,” he insists.

“I’m Jemma. Jemma Simmons. I am the Head Gardener in charge of the Crown Orchids.”

“You’re awfully young for such a prestigious position.”

She looks to be at least a few years younger than he is, and the man who previously held her position was well into his fifties when he received it.

“I’m very good with plants,” she tells him. It’s a statement of fact, not a boast or a defense.

And she must be, to hold such an esteemed position. His parents take those roses very seriously.

“And how long have you been working here?” he gestures around him to indicate he’s referring to the old storage room, and not the palace in general.

“I was given my position here shortly after I returned from my apprenticeship in Wakanda. Leopold and I, he’s responsible for the new irrigation systems, moved into this room about two years ago. With the glass roof, it offers better sunlight and warmth for the struggling blooms.

With her mention of the irrigation systems, Grant finally notices the benches on the far half of the room are filled with less flowers and more farming equipment.

Grant eyes his exit. He thinks he can persuade Jemma to keep quiet about his whereabouts, but if this Leopold returns before he can leave things might get complicated.

Once again, Jemma is perceptive.

“The guards sweep the outer perimeter every hours,” she tells him. “They just passed a few minutes ago.”

He nods his understanding and pushes on the door. It doesn’t move.

“It’s locked,” he tells her, although he imagines she knows that already.

“The guards are the only ones who are supposed to have keys,” she tells him.

“Supposed to?” He can be perceptive, too.

Jemma works a small silver key off a key ring lying on one of the tables and presses it into his palm.

“If I’m not here when you return, just leave it on the hook by the door,” she instructs him.

He nods again in thanks and fits the key into the lock. When he opens the door he checks to make sure there’s no one coming before turning back to Jemma.

“Thank you for your help,” he tells her sincerely. “I’d appreciate it if you—“

“didn’t mention seeing a wayward prince to anyone who may ask?” she offers.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she promises. “Just don’t be gone so long that the guards feel a need to search my workroom. They can be quite careless around the plants.”

He believes she’ll keep his secret.

The door closes quietly behind him as Grant heads off to the city.

\--

He only intends to be gone for a few hours, nothing that would give Jemma cause for concern. But there’s a trader selling horses in the marketplace, and even though it would be suspicious for Grant to buy one, out alone like this, he does waste a lot of time inspecting them. And then he runs into an old friend, a knight by the name of Antoine, who he bribes to keep quiet with food and drink and conversation at the local pub.

So it’s a long while before Grant actually gets around to fulfilling his original intentions for coming out here. Now that he knows he’ll be home for the midsummer celebrations, he needs to find gifts for his family. He could do this another time, accompanied by guards and causing a spectacle, but it’s hard to resist the allure of his current anonymity.

It’s easy enough to shop for his parents and brothers. Both his father and older brother get new hunting knives for their collection. They use them the most often, but Grant has always been the best at choosing them. For his mother, he picks up a small jewelry box, to add to her ever-growing collection. For his younger brother, always the scholar, Grant picks out a leather-bound journal, knowing it will get a great deal of use. His sister is the hardest to shop for, but eventually Grant settles on a purse with a number of hidden pockets, which he knows will entertain her.

He’s debating whether he should buy a gift for his steward, knowing full well the man works more for his mother than for Grant, when he spots a silver necklace with a blue and yellow glass pendant that looks just like the Crown roses. Of course, it reminds him of the young woman charged with their care. He debates whether it’s wise to purchase such a gift for her, but eventually justifies it as a thank you for her silence. He spends the walk back to the palace walls imagining her reaction.

Will she think it extravagant? It didn’t cost much, but he didn’t notice her wearing any jewelry so she might not appreciate it just for that.

As he approaches the door in the wall, the necklace in his pocket seems to weigh more than all the other gifts he’s carrying.

Perhaps he’ll just hold onto it for a while, and take the time to gauge how receptive she might be to the gift.

It’s dark out when he finally sneaks back into Jemma’s workroom and the first thing he notices are the lamps burning on the walls.

Someone’s still here.

He hopes it’s Jemma, both because he wants to see her again and because it will be harder to explain his presence to the Leopold she mentioned. And of course he hopes it’s not a guard, Jemma only promised to cover for him for so long.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. The moment the door shuts behind him he can hear rapidly approaching footsteps.

He doesn’t actually see her over the tops of the flowers until she’s right in front of him, but as soon as he does, he can tell she’s angry.

He shoves the necklace farther down into his pocket. Now is not the proper time.

“Where have you been,” she demands, her voice cautiously low.

She’s still keeping silent for him.

He’s not used to anyone at court speaking to him like that, except for his immediate family. Her familiar tone suddenly rubs him the wrong way.

“That’s not any of your business,” he snaps back.

Her hazel eyes blaze with fury.

“It’s my business when you have guards stopping by every hour to ask if I’ve seen you, interrupting my work and trampling through my flowers. They think you might have been kidnapped.”

He highly doubts his parents actually think that. But a kidnapping probably makes them look better than him running away would. Of course that’s what they would tell the staff.

“As you can tell,” he lays his purchases down on a table to gesture at his own body, “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Yes, I can see that now,” she tells him, anger not dissipating. He’s a bit disappointed to see that she’s not drinking in his muscular form the way he’s seen plenty of women do. Instead, she pushing in closer, forcing him back towards the wall. He can’t help but notice how becoming the angry flush on her cheeks is. “But you should know better. You’re a prince; you can’t just disappear for any entire day without telling anyone. I know I agreed to help you out, but I could have gotten in serious trouble.”

She continues to berate him, and push him back towards the wall full of sharp gardening tools.

Eventually, he has to put his hands on her should to stop her from pressing him backwards into a large pair of sheers.

The moment he touches her, she abruptly stopped talking. If he’d known it was that easy, he’d have done it the moment she started reprimanding him.

He takes her in, creamy skin and pink lips. She stares back. He wonders what she’s thinking.

The loud footsteps of a group of guards pass by, probably searching for him, and the spell is broken.

She forcefully pushes his hands off her shoulders. He’s not prepared for it and he loses his balance. Throwing his arms out in an attempt to regain it, one of them slams into the gardening sheer he’d been trying to avoid.

He doesn’t say anything, just hisses as the sharp blade cuts through his clothes and buries itself in his forearm.

Jemma looks appropriately horrified.

“I’m so sorry, your highness,” she returns to formal terms. “I wasn’t thinking, I don’t know what I was doing. Please forgive me.”

“Jemma,” he replies calmly. “It’s okay. I’ve survived much worse.”

He pulls his arm free and holds it up to a lamp to inspect the wound.

It’s only a couple of inches wide, but judging by the amount of blood pouring from it, it’s deep.

“Oh dear, let me take care of that,” Jemma gently guides him to take a seat near a lap on the flowerless side of the room.

He sits and watches as she sets water to boil in the room’s small hearth and pulls clean cloth, bandages, a needle and thread, and a small bottle of a greenish substance from a box in the corner of the room.

She places a piece of cloth on top of his wound and applies pressure while they wait for the water to boil. He face in quiet concentration rivals her face in anger. He should be more annoyed about this situation, but he isn’t.

When the water has heated properly, Jemma expertly removes the pot from the hearth and drops it near Grant’s feet. Then she slides his right arm out of his jacket and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

She dips another piece of cloth into the water and cleans his cut, slowly and carefully. It’s not pleasant, but as he told her, he’s had much more serious wounds tended to by much less careful men.

When she spreads a thin layer of the greenish salve over his wound, the tingling sensation leads Grant to believe it numbs his skin. When she sticks the threaded needle into his arm, that belief is confirmed. It would hurt more otherwise.

But even with the numbing salve, the stitching of his wound is more painful that the cleaning. Still, Grant doesn’t cry out or flinch. He’s had practice sitting in situations like this, surrounded by men who would never let him live such a reaction down.

Jemma’s stitches are meticulous and even, and he thinks she’d actually be quite useful on the battlefield. He has so many wounds that will never heal as nicely as this one will. Too many men are good with swords and axes, but terrible with a needle and thread.

When she’s finished, she rolls his sleeve back down, and urges him to go and let the guards know he’s safe.

Reluctantly, Grant leaves to face his parents’ anger. His mother certainly won’t be pleased that he missed his fitting.

As he heads towards their rooms, Grant can’t help but think that maybe sewing skills might actually be a skill he wants in a wife.


End file.
